Dumb Luck
by mebh
Summary: At the mouth of Christmas, after a run of terrible luck, Roy and Riza try to make the best of things. Royai, return of Olly and maybe... Lia. Gift!fic for Antigone Rex.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I don't own.**

A swap fic for the wonderful Antigone Rex. Read her stuff this instant! She asked for something with Olly and the birth of a royai baby, namely Lia. So here goes nothing.

Two parts. Most likely OOCness, but there again, maybe not, if you belong to the Olly-exists world of Mustang and Fam.

No beta. Sorry for any embarrassing typos you may encounter!

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In the days leading up to Christmas, when everyone else was winding down and readying themselves for the long holiday season, the Mustangs had a spectacular run of bad luck. On the first real frost of the year, Riza had a rough fall and fractured both her right wrist and right ankle. The doctors attributed it to the extra weight she was carrying, being over seven months pregnant. She attributed to her husband's failing to salt the front path to their West End home. Mustang wasn't available to comment at the time. Grumman was recovering from a worrying chest infection in the South and in his absence, the General had been overseeing all scheduled inspections. On his return from one such engagement, his car left the road and – somewhat unexpectedly – struck a reindeer. The reindeer was badly shaken but otherwise safe, while Mustang escaped with a cracked collarbone and a bad concussion. Naturally, the press had a field day. Mustang did not.

Olly, who was sent to stay with his Grandmother while his suffering parents recuperated, had a fantastic time. Being the child of one of the most wanted men in Amestris (and therefore the world), his parents often feared for his social development. He spent so much time alone, and neither Roy nor Riza felt it was healthy for a boy his age. So, when Madame Christmas informed them that Olly not only mixed well in his creche, but seemed to be something of a natural leader, they were over the moon. Just over two years old and friends were already flocking to him! It was a marvel! Roy jested that it must have been his blood. Riza did not comment.

When he returned to them, they tucked their boy into his little cot, his father covering him in largely unwanted kisses. The following morning, Riza was awoken by two ungodly screams in two distinct pitches. Olly, it transpired, had contracted a severe case of the Chicken Pox. Roy had never had the Chicken Pox. Riza deemed it an appropriate time to comment finally, and comment she most certainly did. In fact, Roy couldn't remember a time when she had commented so fervently and at such length. He did not like the change.

Now, two days before Christmas, the soon-to-be-bigger family was gathered miserably inside the four walls of their beautiful, but as yet undecorated home. Olly's hands had been retired from action after he scored a deep cut on his leg from scratching his pox. Riza had put gloves on his little hands, but the boy managed to bite them off in a matter of hours. Roy, feeling guilty and wary of his tired wife's wrath, took the situation under control and tugged a couple of pairs of socks over the offending fingers. He tied them on with twine. His guilt was understandably increased when Riza had to rescue the wailing toddler from the Cat's Cradle he'd made of himself while Roy was in his soothing calamine bath. The couple finally settled for an inner casing of socks and an outer casing of cotton pads, taped for extra protection. That did the trick.

It was nearing ten o'clock on a snow blown night. The wind howled against the windows, shuddering them in their frames, and the fire danced in the air that rushed down the chimney. Olly sniffed wretchedly on his mother's lap, watching his father with large, suspicious eyes.

"Bad," he said succinctly.

Riza jiggled his chubby legs with her uninjured wrist. "Not bad, Olly. Daddy is silly. Silly."

"Silly," Oliver said, his eyes narrowing at his father.

Roy, for his part, was feeling equally wretched. As funny as the press thought his little bump with the reindeer, he really had suffered a terrible bang to the head. The doctors told him that it been an inch more to the left, he wouldn't be around to complain as much as he did. He was 'very lucky' apparently. He thought the reindeer luckier. The lumbering prick.

Since the accident, he was assaulted by terrible migraines. He had always been prone to headaches, but these were the _Bradleys_ of headaches. Complete bastards, in other words. He dropped his head back on the sofa and winced at the biting pain behind his right ear. Even the soft crackling of the fire was making his head spin, never mind Olly's accusations. He closed his eyes and breathed loudly through his nose. His collarbone really hurt too. And he was hungry.

"Take a pill, Roy," Riza said against Olly's fine hair as she ran her nose back and forth across his soft scalp.

Roy huffed and crossed his arms. He considered a pout but when Hawkeye lowered her eyes at him in that 'lioness' way, he turned it into a last-minute yawn. "They make me sleepy. I hate them."

"You scratch less when you're asleep," said Riza, her eyes resolute. "Take the pill."

"People always scratch in their sleep! More so, probably."

"Not when their loving wives put socks on their unconscious hands."

Roy cocked his head at his wife, grinning. "You just take and take, don't you..."

Bouncing Olly left and right against her large tummy, Riza didn't answer but did concede a small smile. Roy's heart fluttered and that tricky part north of his thighs heated up like a glass bottle in the sun. It seemed that the only way his wife could possibly be more desirable was by being pregnant. He wondered how long they could keep producing offspring before she realised what he was up to.

"You may as well get that look out of your eyes, Roy," she said, smirking behind the toddler's head. "We're barely fit to feed ourselves in this state, let alone accomplish any of _that_."

Olly glanced up at his mother, black hair shining in the firelight, then cast his skeptical eyes back at Roy. _Bad_, he seemed to mouth, but Roy opted for the kinder interpretation of, _Dad. _Riza stroked his cheek with the back of her finger and the child snuggled closer to her, nestling tightly against her very wonderful, very swollen breasts. They were so swollen and so delicious, and all Roy could do was watch as his spawn used them as comfortable milk-sacks.

"Shouldn't he be in bed," Roy suggested with a toss of his head. He'd meant to say: "B-E-D." Bollocks.

"No!" Olly shouted, jerking in Riza's grasp and knocking her bad wrist.

Riza hissed and bit her lip. Squishing Olly against her body, she held her wrist with her good hand.

"_You_," she said, with a dreadful kind of finality, "should be in bed."

"Yes!" Olly concurred victoriously.

"But I'm not tired," protested Roy, who was feeling increasingly jealous of that reindeer.

"You're not _tired_," Riza reasoned, "because you haven't taken your pills."

"But it's Christmas! Look at us! We're a family! There's a fire burning in the-"

"Roy..."

"Cosy..."

"Roy..."

"Smells of cinnamon and this carpet didn't come for-"

"General!"

The General stopped and finally allowed himself that pout. Roy Mustang, Hero of Ishbal and mighty Flame Alchemist uncrossed his legs, sighed loudly and stood. His whole chest ached from the accident, he was spent from work and he had a son who – despite having a vocabulary of less than five hundred words and regularly wet himself – spoke to Roy as though he were the world's greatest idiot. He was also hard for his pregnant, angry wife.

And there was the pox too.

"Okay," he said, hands on hips. Riza had gone back to nursing their toddler, uncaring of his little show of resistance. He removed his hands from his hips and pointed at his former lieutenant. "Two against one. I hope you're happy. It's this kind of oppression we used to fight, if you remember."

"Good night, Roy."

Roy stooped awkwardly to pick up his paper, ignoring his son's winning eyes as best he could. He rose dizzily and dragged himself out of the room.

"I love you," Roy called back from the hallway as he mounted the stairs on suddenly exhausted legs. Was it a crime? To want one's wife's breasts? At Christmas?

"Don't forget to put the socks on your hands!" Riza called after him.

"Night!" Olly screamed after him in his shrill, husky, _smug_ little voice.

Reaching their bedroom, Roy shrugged out of his shirt and grabbed the bottle of pills. With one final look towards the door and his familial enemies beyond it, he tossed a pill back and swallowed it dry. Judging himself hard-done-by enough to justify it, he tossed another one back for good measure. This time, as an extra Christmas treat, he reached into the drop drawer of his bedside cabinet and washed it down with a mouthful of whiskey. There. Better.

He never did manage to get the socks on before he passed out.

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Happy Royai day I suppose. Check for an update soon! ^^


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I don't own.**

Gift!fic for the incredibly talented Antigone Rex. Don't be a fool and check out her stuff.

If you take this seriously, you're not going to have a good time. M'just sayin'.

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The full figure of his wife stood silhouetted in the doorway.

"General," she purred, pushing herself off from the doorjamb and into the dim light of the room.

In her hand, was a smoking gun. She wore a military hat, artfully tilted, and that single golden wing of hair drifted down across one eye. She was pregnant (of course) and other than the hat, she was absolutely, gloriously naked.

"Mrs Mustang," the General said, beckoning her to him with a finger tingling with promise.

"You've been very..." she prowled forward. "Very..." she blew on the muzzle of the gun with her perfectly sculpted lips. Mustang's tummy gave a tight, telling jerk. "Naughty - oh!" She stopped suddenly and tilted her head in confusion, her focus drifting over his right shoulder. Her gun hand dropped to her side.

Mustang's face fell. "Oh?"

Behind Mustang, hooves sounded. Seemingly out of nowhere, a large animal trotted past the heated soldier. A reindeer.

"You again!" Mustang yelled, his voice cracking with indignation.

The reindeer clip-clopped its way between the couple and stopped there. It looked dumbly at Mustang and brayed a low, oaken bray.

By now, all the blood had rushed from Mustang's 'sergeant' to his face. He stood and thrust a finger at the offending animal. He wasn't wearing any trousers, he realised.

"You look here! Don't you think you've done enough to- to-"

The deer's back legs bent and locked. It stretched its long neck forward.

"What are you doing?" Mustang spat.

With an answering bray, the reindeer crouched lower and deposited a handful of large droppings on the plush carpet of his living room floor.

The General stood open-mouthed, his finger still outstretched.

The deer gave a little skip then righted itself. Mustang closed his eyes to calm himself, and when he opened them again – intending to give the deer a thorough telling off – he was further insulted.

Both Riza and Olly sat astride the deer's back; Riza angling for something of the Lady Godiva look.

"You," Mustang spluttered.

"Sorry, General. We have to go," Riza said.

"With this wise-guy?" whined Mustang. "Riza..."

"General!" Riza shouted. "We have to go!"

Roy winced at his wife's sudden volume. He pouted. "Why are you shouting at me?"

"Roy Mustang!"

The General's eyes flew open. The room was dark. He was in bed. Admittedly, he still had no trousers on, but that was only natural.

_It was a dream! Ha, ha! _Roy chuckled to himself. _Game over, _deer_!_

"We have to go!" Riza said, frustrated.

The alchemist yelped as the blankets were torn from him.

"Riza?" he whispered. "Where – wh- why aren't you in bed?"

Barely perceptible through the darkness, his wife was manoeuvring him to sitting. Her tone was clipped as she spoke, but only an idiot could miss the edge of panic in it.

"My water broke. The baby is coming, Roy."

She was off from him again, tearing open the wardrobe and throwing clothes at him.

"It can't have!" Mustang answered, climbing unsteadily from the bed. The whole room was spinning and he couldn't feel much below his chin. In fact, his mouth felt a little loose as well.

Riza was beside him again, pulling his shirt on over one numb hand. "What do you mean 'it can't have?'"

"You're not ready... the oven's still got time left... on the... time-mesters." He tried again. "Trimesters." Pulling the rest of the shirt on himself, he buttoned it clumsily, missing a few holes as he went. His chest ached despite the medication. The medication... "And I'm high as a kite."

"We'll have to make do," Riza answered and was away from him again. "Fetch Olly and meet me at the car. You have to drive. My wrist is killing me."

Mustang watched her leave, wondering if this was perhaps an extension of the dream. Maybe he hadn't awoken yet and that fucking deer was going to appear again at any second.

"Move Roy!" Riza's voice sounded from the bathroom.

As best he could, Mustang moved as directed. Still numb, drug-dosed and sleepy, he continued to speak to his wife as he tripped towards their son's nursery. "You mean to say we're having the baby _right now?_"

"Roy..."

"It's just 'little out of the blue."

Riza's head poked out of the bathroom. "Making do, Roy..."

"Why do we always have to _make do_?" he grumbled.

"Oliver. Car. Now."

Mustang nodded his assent to a wife who couldn't see him and tottered into Oliver's room.

Three minutes later saw Mustang at the front door, his son lovingly secured in his fatherly embrace. Anxiously, he spun the car keys around one unfeeling finger while he waited for Riza to appear. Finally, she descended the staircase, her 'overnight' bag in her good hand and Olly's little yellow knapsack over the other shoulder.

"Oh my God," Roy moaned. "I should be helping you. Let me help you-"

"I don't think you're in much of a state to do that, Roy," Riza answered as she passed him and struggled down the front steps.

Mustang gasped – a little dramatically, even by his own admission – and followed her on unsteady legs. He pressed Olly tenderly to one hip.

"Excuse me, _Riza_, but as a State Alchemist and experienced father I think I am," he reached the car before her and swung open the passenger door for her, grinning smugly at that accomplishment.

Riza took the keys from his hand and waddled round to the driver's side. "Olly's upside-down," she said.

Mustang laughed haughtily. "Come on, now... I think I'd... he's not – crap!"

Indeed, his little boy – who'd also taken a hit of kiddy medicine before bed – was sleeping soundly with two small, stockinged feet in the air. His head dangled around his father's knee-cap. "Oh my God."

"I'll drive. Get in," Riza clipped.

Mustang righted his son, awkward with his injured collar-bone and absent motor skills, and slumped in beside his wife. Olly, slobbering and pock-marked, fell against his shoulder. "I think that's for the best," he said glumly.

Riza heaved a breath. The car was struggling to start in the cold, and the windscreen was impossibly iced. Their baby was coming _weeks _early and they couldn't even see where they were going. "There is _something_ you could do," she smiled at him – a sparrowy, nervous little thing.

Suddenly, like a ray of light, Roy realised that a part of her was actually _enjoying_ this.

"You've got it," he smiled back and clapped, clearing the windscreen immediately. "Making do," he said.

"What we do best," Riza answered, and with a toss of her head, reversed onto the road with a screeching of tires. "If you feel like you're going to be sick, don't tell me. Just do it out the window."

"Yes ma'am," Roy said.

"And Olly's wet himself."

"Two down..."

"And you need to change gears. I can't with this wrist."

"No problem."

Mustang sighed and gathered himself. Here it was. Baby number two. An early bird. Crashing the party just like its big brother did. Why couldn't his wife have the same gestation period as an elephant, say? Or what was longer? A type of salamander, if he remembered-

"First gear, Roy."

"Ah-"

The pair moved off, Riza pressing the pedal to the floor, Olly ensconced in a drug-induced sleep, and Roy managing the gears, eyes narrowed. Reindeer could strike at any moment, after all.

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Thanks – one more to go.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I don't own.**

Gift!fic for the amazing Antigone Rex. She's amazing. Yeap.

Again, this is very light and not to be taken very seriously. If you do, you're in the wrong place. Also, it's not beta'd so any typos, I'll try to clear up on subsequent read-throughs. Excuses done - let's start!

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Mustang noted two things on entering light of the hospital. The first was that just as Riza had said, his son had wet himself. The second was that, by the miracle of leaching, said urine had been transferred onto his own crotch. Presumably he hadn't noticed the process due to the disconcerting fact that anything south of his chin was dead to the world. So there they were: the Mustangs. Wired, wet and ready to have a baby.

The ward staff rushed forward on seeing Riza, hooting with concern. A few of the nurses scowled worriedly at Mustang. He was, after all, covered in red spots, sporting a damp crotch and trembling like a leaf.

"I'm having a baby," he said to them by way of explanation, then feeling Olly stir on his hip added: "Another one."

"Yes, sir," one of the nurses said with a roll of her eyes to a colleague.

The staff eased Riza into a wheelchair which she accepted with a sigh. She turned to look at the chief nurse and pulled a slip of paper out of her pocket, handing it to him.

"Can you call this number, please? Ask for Lieutenant Breda and tell him to come here."

The nurse nodded. "Yes, ma'am. Can I let him know why?"

"My husband needs security detail."

The nurse's eyebrows disappeared beneath his fringe. "Security?"

Riza humoured him with a smile. "Yes. He's-"

"I'm a very important man," Roy said, a hint of conspiracy in his voice. He winked and followed it with a burp. "_Very_ important."

The nurse looked at Riza for some kind of support and she gave a little shake of her head. "Right," she said, throwing a thumb towards the main section of the ward. "Shall we?"

Another nurse positioned himself behind the wheelchair and began pushing. "Are you comfortable ma'am?"

"Quite," Riza said, and Mustang got the sudden impression that she was trying to put the staff at ease, rather than the other way around. He grinned stupidly and made to follow them. A young nurse appeared out of nowhere and stood in front of Roy, smiling with broad, white teeth.

"Hello, sir."

Mustang looked over the woman's shoulder to where his wife was disappearing around a corner.

"You're in the way," he said simply.

The woman's smile faltered for just a second before it spread across her face again like an opening sail.

"I'm afraid you'll have to slip into some scrubs if you're to go into the room with your wife, sir."

Mustang cocked his head at that. He spun on his heel, Olly in tow, to look at everyone else moving around in their green and blue 'scrubs'. Not bad.

"Give me."

The nurse smiled and deposited two sets into his outstretched hand. "Just put the top half on your boy there. There are spare nappies for him in the ladies' bathroom."

"Yeah..." Mustang said beginning to move off.

"No spare underwear though, I'm afraid."

In the ten seconds or so it took Mustang to register the remark and turn around, armed with an incredulous retort, the nurse had disappeared.

Stalking into the ladies' bathroom, Mustang mumbled to Olly angrily, "Stupid nurse... big teeth." He pushed the door closed with his backside. "Like a deer."

He put Olly on the low bench and set to work. Five minutes later, both man and boy were bone dry and dressed head to toe in their scrubs. Mustang felt very pleased with himself.

"How about _that_, kid?" he asked Olly, jiggling him. The boy started to stir. Mustang groaned and switched the boy onto his shoulder, rubbing his back with one hand. "No, no, no, no, shh." If Olly woke up then he really _would_ have a situation on his hands.

Olly struggled for a while, his tiny fists bunching the thin material of Roy's scrub shirt. After a moment's unrest, he settled again. Mustang heaved a sigh of relief and hurried out of the bathroom.

When he reached the ward again, he was met by the same deer-like nurse. His face darkened.

"Hello, sir," she said. She tilted her head and gave him a good looking-over.

"My wife...?"

"Where are your clothes?" she asked, confused but smiling... _grinning_. She glanced down to his hands to see if he was holding them.

Mustang chuckled with forced airiness. "In the bin. My son had a little accident, so-"

She smiled. "The scrubs go _over_ your clothes, sir. What will you wear when you leave the hospital?"

Mustang closed his eyes feeling a migraine start to push its way through the fuzz of his medication. When he opened his eyes, he tried to muster his nicest, most charming smile. Given that half of his face was still dead, however, he managed little more than a disturbing grimace.

"Look, miss," he started. "I'm sort of high right now, and my son here is too." As if to prove it, he gave Olly a little poke with one finger. A string of slobber fell from the boy's mouth. "My wife is being attacked from the inside by a baby who wasn't supposed to show up for another five weeks, at least, and," he breathed deeply, "if I'm being totally honest, I don't really know what's happening. I have the chicken pox and your teeth are _kind_ of big."

Roy Mustang – Flame Alchemist and youngest General in Amestrian history was respectfully asked to go immediately to his wife's private room. It had been years since he'd made a girl cry and it was just as unpleasant as he remembered.

Riza wasn't there when he arrived. Thirty minutes later, she still wasn't there, and five minutes after that, a sombre-faced surgeon entered the room. The doctor checked that Olly was sleeping soundly before he crouched down in front of a red-eyed Mustang. The man placed one hand on Mustang's knee.

Mustang looked up at him through bleary eyes. "Where's Riza?" he croaked.

The doctor sighed. "General," he said. "I'm afraid there's been a complication."

Mustang's heart leapt in his chest. Suddenly, he didn't feel very wired any more.

His son chose that moment to wake up. Irritable and sore, he began crying immediately.

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Thanks, and try to review if you can - it's starting to feel a bit lonely. T_T

antigone - just one more... I PROMISE.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: I don't own.**

**Gift!fic for Antigone Rex. She's amazing. Check her stuff out!**

**Sorry everyone – just this then an epilogue. It wouldn't be mebh!fic without a dark patch now, would it? (no beta so typos... blargh!)  
**

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Mustang stirred as the breeze of a passing person brushed against his cheek. Clutching the small, warm body of his sleeping son against him, he sat up straight and cracked an eye open. It had been a nurse who had passed. She hurried on her way down the corridor and disappeared around a corner.

He checked his watch. It had been six hours now. Six hours since the doctor came to him and delivered the bad news with a sombre, knowing voice. Two hours hours since Olly, fatigued from crying so much and missing his mother, had fallen into his shallow and feverish sleep. Now the little boy lay with his cheek pressed to his father's neck; his breath coming out in hot, strained pants. One chubby little arm lay heavily across Mustang's broken collar bone, but the man accepted it quietly, not wishing to disturb the sleeping child. Mustang rubbed his hand up his son's back, then back down again. Suddenly, Oliver the monster seemed much smaller and altogether less monstrous.

He remembered their first pregnancy: Oliver's triumphant debut. He thought _that_ hell. Olly was breech, and in that position, surgery was impossible. Riza Mustang had _screamed_. His wife. His Riza. His most dear thing. She'd screamed and screamed, far into the night. Doctors had raced around her, around _him_, frantically doing everything they could to help baby and mother both. Riza's calm, serene face was transformed into a mask of horror and of pain. Swollen and soaking with sweat, she cried until her voice was hoarse; sometimes calling for him and sometimes pushing him away with angry, confused shoves.

After twelves hours of torture that seemed without end, Oliver was born into existence. Bright purple, wet and wriggling, he squawked with uncanny brightness and volume. The midwife packed him in swaddling more securely than a Xingese vase, so all that could be seen was a tuft of wild, black hair and two scrunched up, cantankerous eyes. She handed him to Riza who lay panting, eyes wide and arms stretched out hungrily for her new child. In a rush of possessiveness, blame and anguish, Mustang feared he might actually fling the baby from his wife's arms for delivering those dark hours of torture. He left the room on shaking legs. The alchemist had his first cigarette in years, offered by an equally distressed Havoc who'd been told that Riza's chances of survival were slimmer than her son's. _"Nothing too dramatic for the Mustangs, huh?"_ he'd quipped, but he spoke without smiling and dropped his cigarette twice before managing to light it.

The screaming, the tears, the fear, the guilt... He thought_ that_ hell. But this bastard silence.

It was unbearable.

There was no buzz of medication and there was certainly no adrenaline. There was only the hollow ache of fear in his middle. It was a fear that recalled dank tunnels and gold-toothed doctors. And here he was, helpless again.

OoO

"General Mustang, sir?"

Mustang replaced the magazine he'd been reading and glanced up to see the same doctor from before. Bright flecks of blood dotted the pocket of his coat. The alchemist swallowed hard, worried he might be sick.

"Yes," he answered. Olly mumbled something against his neck. He cupped the small head with his scarred hand and repeated: "Yes."

"Your wife is out of surgery and is faring well. She's awake and talking."

Relief burned in Roy Mustang – a hot wash of emotion that almost put him on the floor. He blinked stars away – or tears – and fought to keep a hold of himself. He stood, swaying a little before finding his balance.

"The baby?"

"It's a girl."

"She's okay? She's – I'm – I mean, she's healthy?"

The doctor pressed his lips together and glanced down at Oliver in his father's arms. The man took a deep breath, and in that split second before he started speaking, Mustang forgot the litany of former terrors. There was only this now. As though he was afraid for the very first time. A little girl...

"Your daughter's lungs are not fully developed, and she is very small. I'm afraid she just didn't have enough time..."

Mustang gripped Olly to him. "She's dead?"

"Pneumonia and jaundice," said the doctor. Mustang closed his eyes and shook his tired, tired head. "She's having trouble staying warm. Just too small. And with this weather, we can't get the equipment from Grand Central Hospital. It's very limited and... Sir..."

Mustang felt a hand on his shoulder. He opened his eyes. In his arms, Olly woke and looked about him with wide, curious eyes. He did not make a sound.

"Sir, the baby is _very _sick. We're doing the best we can, but without enough oxygen, the child will suffer irreparable damage. She just... can't breathe, General. I'm sorry."

A heavy fog descended on the alchemist. In its midst, he could see nothing but struggle, and sin, and terror, and guilt, and loss. "_Nothing too dramatic for the Mustangs..." _That was their lot, perhaps. Here they were again. His poor Riza and their poor, fragile little baby who flickered at the gates of death like a candle. He could feel Oliver's large eyes on him: dark, black windows without a hint of judgment. He wondered what the boy could see in the distraught face of his father – what news, or strife, he perceived there.

"Daddy?" Olly asked. He wriggled in his father's grip and freed both hands. He placed them on Mustang's cheeks and said again: "Daddy?"

It was as though the boy planted the thought himself.

"I can do it," Mustang whispered. His exhausted eyes found the doctor's. "I can do it. I can breathe for her."

"What?" asked the doctor, shocked and not without indignation.

Mustang dropped Olly to the crook of his arm, so that the boy faced the doctor. With his free hand, he took the doctor by the wrist.

"All I need is a doctor with me to tell me how much she needs. I _can_. I can do it... I'm a State Alchemist. Surely you know who I am. That has to be worth something! I specialise in gases – oxygen. I know the properties of these gases better than any machine... Please...

"I – this is most..."

Desperation fountained in Mustang's chest. "Please! What hope does she - _please..._"

A tear fell from Mustang's eye and struck Olly on the wrist. The little boy studied it with wonder, then tilted his eyes to his father. Mustang's hand tightened on his rump.

"Please," Mustang begged. "Please let me try... let me try to save my little girl."

The doctor stared at Mustang for a long time, and the alchemist, for his part, never broke eye contact. Olly jiggled his father's arm, upset beginning to show in the plump features of his face.

"Please."

With a sigh, the doctor nodded and turned. "Follow me," he said. "You understand the sensitivity of this?"

"I'm an expert at secret-keeping..."

"We'll try to get the equipment across town as soon as we can..."

"Yes... yes..." Mustang would say anything. As many 'yes's' as the doctor needed.

"Though we can't let either of you near the baby – you're both contagious, no? The boy should stay with his mother. Can you manage it from a distance?"

Mustang hurried after him. "Sir, I honestly believe I could manage it from Drachma if you asked me to."

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Thanks!


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer – don't own.**

**Wow – this did not go in the direction I expected it to... Still, Antigone (and everyone else) I hope it wasted some time pleasantly for you, at least.**

**No beta – typos. Blargh.**

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There was a pulling on his left hand, but Roy Mustang did not look round. Distantly, he felt the needle of the IV slide wetly from the back of his hand. Someone was checking it, he imagined, though he gave it little thought. Seconds later, it slid back in. It stung dully, but he paid it no heed.

His eyes were fixed on the small body across the room from him. Yellow, with skin puckered and thin, his daughter lay sleeping. Her head – no bigger than his fist, he estimated – was topped with a soft white cap and her tiny feet were capped in delicate pink booties. Wires sprang from her like fireworks and she had yet to open her eyes. She had yet to make a sound or move a finger. She was like a doll who'd been abandoned in the making. His soul ached for Riza and her tender heart. No doubt, with only Olly to distract her, her thoughts would turn to fault and 'what ifs'. It was her way.

After the doctor had issued his consent to Mustang, both men discussed the details. Mustang listened with a ferocity that had him shaking in the thin material of his scrubs. Figures and gases shot through his brain and danced in the inky redness behind his closed eyes. He worshiped the gate in those moments. He worshiped Bradley - _Father_ even, for the horror of their ambitions had given him the blessed burden of the Gate's knowledge. Without it, he would be lost. The scars on his hands sang with the glorious pain of _possibility_.

He practiced breathing for the doctor first, then – with some trepidation – for Olly. Both went fine. It was easy, in fact. He lost himself in it: pulling out carbon dioxide and pushing in oxygen. Eventually, his breath matched their own and it took little thought from there.

But then he'd started on the baby. Her lungs – so tiny! - were barely enough to sustain him, and so after only minutes he was sweating and exhausted. He fell into a kind of trance. The only thing he had to do, he told himself, was keep breathing. For him and for his daughter. The doctor eventually hooked him up to an IV and then placed a bedpan by his cot. Staff came and went, amazed by this man. Then the press were crowding the doors of the maternity ward. A Christmas story for the nation: _Flame Alchemist Rescues Daughter from Death. _

Riza's voice came to him after an immeasurable time, a whisper in the haze. She said: it's been eighteen hours. And she said: you're suffering. He didn't answer, but watched their little girl as he had done until then. His wife's hand rested on his forehead, cool and calloused. Steady. So he was steady too. For their baby.

On Christmas Day, just when children across Amestris were tearing open their presents and hooting with delight, the weather calmed. Two hours later, the incubator arrived.

At eleven o'clock, the infant was placed into her sacred, life-giving box and Mustang – near passing-out – was moved to his wife's suite.

That evening when he woke up, Riza was in bed chatting to a fur-wrapped Madame Christmas; Breda was playing Solitaire on the floor by the door and Olly...

"Daddy," said Olly.

Mustang blinked the sleep from his eyes and glanced down, his neck aching. His son's chubby fingers were curled around the edge of the bed, and he was standing on his tip-toes to glare at his father. He had a note. "Oliver..." Mustang croaked.

"Here," he clipped, shoving the note against his father's arm.

"Maybe later, Olly... The baby? Breda... the baby?"

"Doing great, chief," Breda smiled up at his commander. "Really great. Doctor just came by."

"Here!" cried Olly. "Here! Here! Now!"

"Ah..." Mustang sighed and took the paper from his son. He opened it with some difficulty. Drawn in thick crayon was a picture that, while initially difficult to decipher, became much easier when turned on its side. It was a man: him (he could tell by the small head. A characteristic deformity Olly insisted his father had). And a woman: Riza, presumably judging by the helmet of yellow hair. On top of them, Olly had drawn a large red circle with an 'X' through it. To the untrained eye, they looked as though they were swimming together, or dancing perhaps. To Mustang's eye (the eye of a father) it looked exactly like – well – what it was...

At the bottom, Olly had written: "Daddy". Beside that, was a space for him to sign.

"Riza darling," Mustang said.

Riza looked at him, smiling with relief. Madame Christmas leaned on her hip, eyes glistening with a mixture of pride and long-suffering humour.

Mustang folded the note and ignored Olly's incredulous growl. "Do you know if this joint does vasectomies?"

Riza sighed and leaned back into her thick pillow.

"Go back to sleep, dear." she said.

Mustang scrunched the note and tossed it at her. It glanced off her cheek and fell to the floor. He folded his arms, pleased with himself and with the look of tired resignation on her face. "Call me a 'deer' again and I'll -"

"Daddy," Olly clipped. "Shut the mouth."

* * *

Thanks folks. Reviews are plesant as hell.


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